Helplessness Blues
by boywithacoin
Summary: Bethyl AU. Following the death of his wife, under the crushing weight of medical bills and debt, Hershel battles old demons and finds himself spiraling downward into the bottom of a bottle - where he ends up owing money to a certain rough-and-tumble pair of brothers. With her sister away at school, Beth has to put her own dreams on hold and try and pick up the pieces.
1. Chapter 1

**Helplessness Blues**

_Bethyl AU. Following the death of his beloved wife, Hershel falls apart. His youngest daughter finds herself responsible for putting him back together. Perhaps with some unexpected help._

**Prologue**

Hershel Greene could still remember his first day at Alcoholics Anonymous. His suit fit looser then. His hair had been the color of spun straw. A pregnant wife at home, all fine bones and floral shifts. Her skin glowed as her belly rounded. Their modest homestead, a few inherited tracks of land, muddled ground with chickens and sheep. But they made more than enough to get by. Enough to spend their evenings together, sat on the porch. Sweet tea in her glass, something stronger in his.

That _something stronger_ that always made her smile sadly at him, nothing but love and patience in her eyes. Nothing but love and patience when she'd help his stumbling frame to bed. When she'd rise early, leaving water and aspirin on the bedside table. When she'd phone his local haunts at three o'clock in the morning on a Tuesday, just making sure he was alright.

Until the morning she woke him with knowing eyes, silently pressed his hand to her abdomen.

"It's not going to be just us anymore. I don't know if things can stay the same."

And off he went to church in his Sunday best. Past the pews and pulpit. Past the likeness of Christ himself. Down the creaky steps into the basement, where into his hand they pressed a small silver coin. Likely lead or copper scraps left over from an auto plant, moulded into a chip, painted to shine dully against the palm of his hand. A 'sobriety token', they called it. Meant to inspire him. A man with too-white teeth had smiled at him, congratulated him on 24-hours without booze.

Hershel had thought the tokens silly, unnecessary. The others displayed them proudly. Kept them on their mantles, in their wallets – the way unbroken people showed off photos of their children.

But he kept attending the meetings. Kept attending to his pregnant love at home, marveled as her body grew and changed – a part of him inside of her. Their liquor cabinet remained unstocked, his bar tab unused. And the tokens kept coming. Red for one month sober. Green for 90 days. Blue for six months. Tossed in the empty liquor cabinet, collecting dust.

Nine months of sobriety was meant to be the purple coin. But Hershel missed that meeting. Instead, he found himself holding a much more important token. One that smelled like soft cotton and hollered like Hell itself was burning in her throat. One that would one day give him half a heart attack with her antics and would always be Maggie, never Margaret. Looking at her soft downy hair and wide eyes, he couldn't imagine ever tasting another drop of liquor. Ever wanting to.

But God himself must not have meant for it to last.

Because before long his bride was lost. And Hershel was alone with a farm and a toddler. And old demons calling. First just a splash of whiskey in his evening coffee. He'd need the coffee to keep him up with Maggie. He'd need the whiskey to help him drift listlessly to sleep in an empty bed. Then a weekly trip to the local pub. He worked so hard, he deserved it. He needed it. Then more often than not, a crying Maggie passed off to Patricia and Otis. A shame-faced Hershel Greene, passed out at the bar.

Then _Annette._

She simply entered his life as though she had always been there. With warm eyes and an easy smile, she managed to sort through the mess of him and find the parts that fit. More importantly she fit with Maggie, gave the child the mother that she desperately needed. The partner that Hershel desperately needed. The wedding was small and sufficient. Not a first for either of them. But it was theirs.

Where his first bride had indulged his bad habits with patience and understanding, Annette stood firm. He'd come home to the farm and find her with Maggie at her hip, pouring bottles of Southern Comfort down the drain. She knew all his hiding spots. She'd storm to the bar herself, find him at the bottom of a bottle. With her hands on her slim hips, her mouth a tight line.

"We all have jobs to do Hershel Greene. Are you sure this is yours?"

He experienced a sense of deja vu the day he came in from the fields and found Annette at the kitchen sink, washing dishes and singing to herself. Maggie at her feet banging pots and pans. Her back to him, she spoke matter-of-factly. "I'm pregnant Hersh."

At his silence, she turned to face him. Her eyes unreadable. "I love you as much as any woman can a man. But I'll take this baby _and_ Maggie if you don't shape up. You hear?"

Wordlessly, he took her and Maggie in his arms. His girls. Every oath and promise that a man can make a woman trapped on his tongue. But in that moment, it was enough. He had heard her.

Back to his Sunday best. Back to church basements. Back to gathering stacks of chips and tokens. And one purple token later, back to the hospital.

This time when the nurses handed him his new daughter, the child was so quiet he could scarce believe it was his. Eyes so blue and clear it almost frightened him. As though the baby girl in his arms could see every mistake he had ever made written clear on his face. He held her to his chest and facing the window silently wept. Pure joy and sheer terror that he wasn't good enough, strong enough. That he would do wrong by this bundle of nerves and innocence and God's grace himself.

This little bundle they named Beth.

Returning the baby to Annette to nurse, he excused himself and paced the hallways of the hospital. Felt his hands shake for a drink. Felt the urge to flee. The weight of his own father's mistakes bearing down hard on his shoulders. Had never hated himself so much in that moment.

It wasn't until he calmed down, returned to his wife's room that he found his resolve. Found his wife and two daughters, propped up in the bed. Annette patiently helping Maggie in counting her new sister's ten little fingers. Ten little toes. The idyllic little picture. The family that Hershel had always wanted. The family that he could have, if he only let himself. And by the tenth toe, he felt his fears melt away. Felt his thirst dissipate.

He had stopped attending the Alcoholics Anonymous meetings years ago. Hadn't needed them. Not when there were three smart, vivacious, and beautiful women at home to keep him on track.

They'd had a good run. Had many, many happy years.

As he sat at the bar now, tossing back his fourth (or was it fifth?) bourbon, he couldn't stop himself from wryly wondering what color token they would have given for eighteen years sober.

Couldn't stop himself from thinking that they should have tokens for other things. A token for when the love of your life is ripped from you by illness. A token for when your eldest daughter leaves home, the tug at your heart when you feel her slipping away from your fatherly grasp. A token for when your life's work begins to crumble around you. A token for when your youngest daughter has to put her own dreams and life on hold because her old man is too sad and sick to carry on himself.

Hershel Greene looked up from the amber liquid in front of him. On the television above the bar was a broadcast of the day's horse races. His mind was hazy from the drink, but he knew he should pay attention. He had money on the results. Seemed like he had money on everything these days. Annette's medical bills, the rising cost of the farm, Maggie's tuition. Any money set aside for Beth's education had long been spent. She never complained, but Hershel could see the longing in her eyes whenever Maggie called. Beth had never been too adept at hiding her true feelings.

So he kept betting. Some pathetic attempt to try and give her back what she deserved. Her future, her freedom. If he could just win enough, he could cover their debts. Beth could stop working so much. Could study music. Could get as far away from that farm and her father as she wanted.

But he had never been much of a betting man before. And it showed through in his losses. And as the losses grew, so did his despair, so did his bar tab. Until he was in a vicious and self-destructive cycle. Taking his sweet Beth down with him.

He watched through bleary eyes as the racing results of the day flashed across the screen. Swearing into his drink, he shook his head. He had been stupid to try. He didn't even turn to look when he felt the presence of someone casually slump into the stool beside him. Felt an arm roughly drape across his shoulders in a caricature of amiability.

He could smell the alcohol on the man's breath as his speech slurred and distraughtly realized that it matched his own.

"Well, well, well Greene. For a farmer, you sure can't seem to pick a damn winning horse. Lemme buy you another round because it looks like you're gonna need it. You owe old Merle Dixon a fair bit of money now."

He accepted the drink with shame. Merle Dixon was right, he needed it. But in the deep recesses of his mind, where he was still a good man, still sober and contrite - he heard himself apologize to Beth and to God himself for having grown into such a weak man.

And God, he was weak.

**Author's Note: Hi guys! I haven't written fan fiction in AGES so please, be gentle with me as I get re-accustomed to fiction writing. Really just something to help get me through the long hiatus. Intending this to be a long piece with a slowwwww burn Bethyl. Taking a few obvious artistic liberties as this is an AU. The prologue was obviously from Hershel's POV and I believe the story itself is going to switch view from chapter to chapter. But hopefully in a way that's seamless enough for the reader. My writing always tends to be more about the character's stream of consciousness so I hope that's not offputting. Reviews, opinions, comments are so welcome! And you can always find me over on Tumblr at BETHGREENEPEACE, where I'm always eager to discuss Bethyl.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Helplessness Blues**

Chapter One

_I was raised up believing I was somehow unique_  
_Like a snowflake distinct among snowflakes, unique in each way you can see_  
_And now after some thinking, I'd say I'd rather be_  
_A functioning cog in some great machinery serving something beyond me_

Light streamed through the windows. The Venetian blinds casting strips of sunlight across Beth Greene's slim figure, still wrapped up in her sheets. She had always thought that 'Venetian' was a bit grand of a name for simple slats of plastic connected with string. Simple slats of plastic and string that weren't even doing their job of keeping the sun from her face. Her window treatments weren't entirely to blame for her early rise though. Too many breakfast and graveyard shifts at Marietta's Diner had done a real number on her body's circadian rhythm.

_You're lucky to have a job as it is._ Their small Georgia town hadn't been immune to the woes of the American economy. And as a 19 year old girl with no formal education or training past high school, she would take what she could get. _For now anyways._ Even if it meant being on her feet for ten hours at a time and coming home every day smelling like burnt coffee and hamburger grease.

Her friends didn't understand why she stayed. She didn't even know if Maggie understood, not really. Maggie was a different animal these days. Well educated and worldly. They were no less close, but the differences between them felt more tangible. The gap becoming harder and harder to bridge. Beth could feel the tension in her own neck at the end of each phone call. Feel the strain of her smile, just a tad forced, during visits. Found it more difficult to quash her jealousies, both petty and justified.

Whenever Maggie was around, they tried to mask the seriousness of the situation. Bills were filed away out of sight. Hershel shaved and wore his best, cleanest clothes. "It's a special occasion" everyone would croon. And then Maggie would go back off to school, taking whatever was 'special' with her. Beth left at home alone to clean up.

She hated how bitter she felt at times.

"We've all got jobs to do." Like a mantra, she'd run the phrase through her mind over and over. Each time her alarm went off at 3:45 in the morning to prep for a breakfast shift at the diner. Each time she'd work a double because unbeknownst to them, Otis and Patricia were largely getting paid solely on Beth's tips. Each time Hershel came home after last call, stumbling up the steps drunk and apologizing as Beth helped him to the couch.

"Your mama would be so ashamed of me right now. I'm so sorry Bethy"

"I know Daddy. It's okay, I'm here."

He was never mean. He was never cold or abusive. He was only sad. Sad and sick from drink. And most importantly, he was her father. So Beth couldn't leave. She could never leave him. "We've all got jobs to do." And being here. For her father. For the farm. That was her job.

_For now anyways._

It had been just over a year since her mother passed. Just the right amount of time for the oncologists and hospitals and care specialists to get their financing and billing statements in order. Just enough time for the bills to be stamped and sorted and sign, sealed, delivered right to Beth's feet. But not enough time for Hershel to get over the loss. Not enough time for him to put that damn bottle down. Though, she kept foolishly, naively, all-encompassingly hoping that it would come any day.

Beth closed her eyes, did her best to clear her mind, but sleep wouldn't come. She abandoned the idea and stretched languidly, hearing the satisfying click and pop of her joints and spine. Besides the sound of her waking, the house was quiet. Sliding from the bed, she padded softly across the room to the window. Despite the farming hour, theirs was distressingly quiet. No distant hum of a tractor. No squawking of animals, happy to be freed of their pens for another day.

Glancing across the field, to the ranch house that Otis and Patricia shared, she noticed their truck and animal trailer gone. It seemed every week now they had to sell another piece of livestock just to keep the place up and running.

A low snore rumbled from across the hallway, the reason for the farm's stillness. Her father hadn't been at his best when he returned home the night before. But he hadn't been at his worst either. He'd made it up to his room all on his own. Beth considered that a victory these days (when she was feeling particularly cynical). But the sheepish and awkward hunch of his shoulders, bottle poorly hidden behind his back from her view, was a sure sign that the night's 'celebrating' wouldn't end until sleep claimed him against his will.

Now, he'd likely sleep well into the afternoon.

Beth sighed to herself as she made her way down the stairs to the kitchen, not making much effort to be quiet. It would be easier to wake the dead than her father right now. A part of her was relieved that Patricia and Otis were away for the day. They did more than their fair share around the farm, Beth wouldn't make it without them. But the look in their eyes when her father had days like this was almost too much for her to bear. Whether they blamed her for not being able to get through to him, not forcing some kind of solution, or pitied her because they knew she couldn't – she didn't know which was worse.

Humming a few bars of something she couldn't quite place, she stood on tiptoes for the aluminum tin of Folgers and put a fresh filter in the coffee pot. Everything always felt and looked better after a cup of coffee. She had the majority of the day free ahead of her and wondered what she would do with her time. With Otis and Patricia gone for the day, she could lay out in the sun and read even the trashiest romance novel without any judgment. Or maybe she'd go to the library and take out one of the classics from Maggie's reading list. Even if college wasn't in the cards for her right now, she could still read like it was.

Her musings were interrupted by a sudden violent pounding on the front door. She jumped, wondering if maybe she made plans with Jimmy for the morning and forgotten him. It wouldn't be the first time. Making her way through the hallway though, she could make out her surprise guest's voices. They were distinctly aggressive. Distinctly _not_ the kind of company she would expect to have.

Pausing on her side of the door, she considered ignoring them. Wondered if she could latch the extra deadbolt (which had always seemed so unnecessary before) without the sound alerting them to her presence. She shook her head, suddenly annoyed at herself for always being such a baby. Steeled herself and opened the door.

Beth found herself glad that the step up to the doorway gave her a bit of height, as her porch seemed to currently be home to two of the surliest and most contentious rednecks she'd had the pleasure to see. She couldn't stop her mother's voice from drifting through her mind. The gentle way she'd chide her whenever Beth went out with friends. _Watch out for the riffraff, darlin'. _

She shook the thought from her head and cleared her throat in a way that she hoped sounded more cavalier than she currently felt. "Can I help you?"

The decidedly uglier of the two smiled at her in a way that was far from friendly. Taking a step towards her, she could smell the alcohol dissipating through his sweat glands. Her body tensed, her grip on the doorway tightened. A pathetic attempt to shield the entrance to her home. "Sign down the road says Greene. This Hershel Greene's farm?"

If it had been anyone else at her door, the question would have set her at ease. They got visitors looking to buy and sell feed or equipment all the time. But the look of these two, didn't strike up images of any legitimate business.

Beth clenched and unclenched her jaw before nodding. "He's not home though." Instantly she worried that she had said the wrong thing. Wanting to protect her father was one thing. Accidentally leading these... _men_ to think she was home alone was another. She scrambled for a way to cover herself when the older one started laughing.

"Bullshit that old git is anywhere but his own bed, sleepin' it off. Just run on up lil' girl and get your Pa'. We've got grown up business to discuss."

Her grip on the doorframe tightened still, her knuckles white with annoyance. Annoyed at his condescension, the insinuation that she was a child, his stench, the very fact that these men would come here and try and tarnish her precious sunny morning. Temper winning over judgement, she stepped towards them, filling the doorway more completely. "I already told you, he's unavailable. If you'd like to leave a message, I'd be happy to deliver it."

The man's smile faded at her tone. Taking a threatening step towards her, he regarded her icily. "If you're his secretary, I'm assuming you're his fucking financial advisor too. Now, you're daddy owes my brother and me here $300. And we're not leaving until we get it."

Beth felt her face flush with anger. At these men, at her father, at her squandered morning. She swallowed thickly and prayed her voice didn't shake when she spoke. "You should know that drunk men aren't good on credit. You're just going to have to cut your losses. And leave."

To her surprise, the man laughed. "I took you as a lil' churchmouse, girl. You got a bit more bite to you than that though. Look doll, it ain't personal. Just business." He reached a hand forward towards her. Beth flinched at his touch at the same moment that his brother moved on a start.

"Merle, quit it. Let's just go. It ain't worth it."

Beth noticed the obviously younger of the two for the first time. It hadn't been difficult for him to fade into the shadow of his brother's abrasive figure. To his insignificant credit, he looked markedly uncomfortable by the whole situation.

"Now baby brother, I don't know what goldmine you're sittin' on that $300 seems meaningless but I better get a cut. Now we won't be any trouble, just gonna collect on our debts!" With one fluid motion he pushed Beth out of the way and crossed the threshold inside.

For a surreal moment she was left alone on the porch with the younger brother. Her eyes wide with disbelief and fear. He made no move to enter the house after his brother, seeming content instead to examine a scuff on his boot and peer up at her sheepishly through his hair. As though waiting for her to enter first. For some reason this caused her temper to spike. "What? You're trying to be a _gentleman_ now?"

Turning on her heel, she hurried inside after the elder, just as he was starting to shout Hershel's name up the stairs. Her face burning with anger and violation, she shushed him pleadingly. Waking her father now wouldn't do any good. She didn't have the heart to have to deal with his guilt and sad apologies. Not after this morning. In the end, the money would be coming out of her savings anyways.

"I'll get you the money. Just quit it, please." She left the brothers in the hallway and entered the kitchen. Had half a mind to grab the pistol her father kept in a drawer under the telephone. Imagined herself waving it around, pointing it at them. Knew she'd never have it in her to actually shoot. More importantly, knew that _they_ knew she'd never have it in her to actually shoot.

She cringed inwardly at the sound of them following her. "Just makin' sure you weren't doing anything fishy, doll. No need to get anybody or anything else involved here besides us and our money."

Beth gritted her teeth and said nothing. She was going to have to dip into her rainy day fund for this. The tips and birthday money and found dollar bills that she squirreled away in an old coffee can kept hidden in the back of the highest kitchen cabinet. A place that Hershel would never think to look when he was drunk. She didn't like the thought of these men knowing where she kept her rainy day fund. It annoyed her to think that she'd have to find a new spot.

Even more humiliating, she needed to stand on a chair to reach it. She dragged over a kitchen stool and gingerly laid a hand on the counter for support as she reached deep into the back of the top shelf. The brother she now knew as Merle just laughed, but the younger moved as though to help her, reaching her just as she turned to climb back down. She fixed him with a glare and he retreated. Back to his brother's shadow.

She removed the the lid of the coffee can with a satisfying pop. That pop used to be one of her favorite sounds. Proof that she was saving money. Reminded her of the promise and potential of the future. Of doing things, going places. Right now it sounded hollow and dull. She grabbed fistfuls of bills and begin smoothing them out, counting them. She had an astounding number of singles and fives. And even though giving up the fifties and twenties hidden at the bottom of the can would get rid of the riffraff more quickly, the stubborn side of her wanted them to have the singles and fives. Her mother's words floating through her mind again. _Oh my Beth. When you're good, you're very good. But when you're bad, you're awful._

She handed Merle $150 worth of small bills and he looked at her curiously as she begin counting out another pile. "You a stripper, girl? Hope they'd be giving a pretty young thing like you more than singles."

A treacherous blush crept to her cheeks, but she didn't look up from her counting. Mumbled under her breath, "I'm a waitress."

"At Marietta's."

She and Merle both looked up at the younger brother, as though startled that he had spoken. Beth was surprised that he had noticed her. Merle looked back to his cash, recounting it for the second time – but she kept her gaze on the younger for another beat. Just long enough for a flash of red to rise in his throat. Her voice was soft. "Yeah, at Marietta's."

Maybe it was because she was tired of counting. Or maybe she just wanted them to leave. Or maybe it was because he had been slightly more agreeable than Merle, but she let the younger brother have a few crisp twenty dollar bills in his wad of cash. She reached to hand it to him and as their fingers brushed for a split second, he jerked his back. As though she had been trying to hand him a rattlesnake and not a stack of her own hard-earned money. Money that he didn't deserve in the first place.

Suddenly, he seemed a hell of a lot less agreeable to her.

He didn't bother to count the money like Merle had, instead shoved it quickly away in his pocket. Looked more like he had been given a parking ticket than a payment. Beth folded her arms across her chest and jutted her chin forward in a gesture that she hoped looked defiant. Even if at the moment, she felt anything but. It suddenly occurred to her that she was still in her pajamas. Matching mayfair cotton yellow separates. Covered in a print of lemons. It made her feel even more humiliated.

Merle grinned at her toothily, went so far as to give her a mock bow. "It was a pleasure doing business with you. And please, give your Pa' my best." He had the audacity to whistle as he turned to see himself out.

The younger lingered a moment longer, facing but not quite looking at her. Beth maintained her stance but raised her eyebrows, as if to ask if he needed something else. He looked as though he was about to speak but instead just furrowed his brow. Scowled as he followed his brother out.

Beth stayed planted in her spot until she heard the obnoxiously loud sound of their engines start up. How had she not heard them pull in? She had been so lost in her own thoughts, the promises of coffee and a lazy morning ahead of her. Making her way back to the front door, she clicked the lock shut. For good measure, turned the extra deadbolt. It creaked from previous disuse.

She let out a deep breath she didn't realize she had been holding.

Didn't feel much like laying out in the sun anymore.

**Authors Note: I just wanted to say thank you so much to everyone who responded so well to the prologue! I'm going to be super busy the next couple of days so I wanted to try and get another update in tonight. I hope my characterization of Beth read true. This back half has been so exciting as a Beth fan because we've really gotten to see a side of her that is so surprisingly spunky. I think that Beth is very sweet but also very stubborn and I tried to find a balance between the two in the way that I wrote her this chapter. I don't that her standing up to Merle (or obviously Daryl) is too off the mark, but I was cognizant to not making her too badass. Even if there is a new sheriff in town. Next chapter should be up hopefully on Thursday and will be from Daryl's POV, see how he feels about him and Merle shaking down a teenage girl. Again, thank you so much everyone for the support! It's been so nice to get back into fiction writing today. Last time I did anything with fanfiction, I believe I was still waiting for Goblet of Fire to come out. Yikes! And again, you can always find me on tumblr at bethgreenepeace.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Helplessness Blues**

Chapter Two

_What's my name, what's my station, oh, just tell me what I should do  
I don't need to be kind to the armies of night that would do such injustice to you  
Or bow down and be grateful and say "sure, take all that you see"  
To the men who move only in dimly-lit halls and determine my future for me_

"All these one dollar bills are giving me a real hankerin' for a trip to the Cheetah Lounge. What do you say, baby brother? Blondie do us a favor back there?" Merle grinned lazily, taking a drag from his cigarette. One hand gripped the steering wheel, the other draped out the open window. Though Daryl didn't know why his brother bothered. Merle's truck already reeked of tobacco.

"Just drop me at my place. Had enough of your bullshit for today."

Daryl kept his eyes glued to the landscape as they drove. Not really looking at much of anything, a blur of colors and shapes. As they passed field after field, flush with grain and corn, he couldn't help but think that the farm they had just vacated was lacking compared to the other locals. Less growth, less hustle and bustle.

_Daryl liked to notice things._

This particular observation only served to deepen the gnawing feeling in the pit of his gut though. Surely, him and Merle shaking down the farmer's daughter for cash wouldn't help rejuvenate their dwindling crop.

As though sensing his brother's growing guilt, Merle glanced up from the road. "You always were too fuckin' soft."

Daryl expressed his dissent with a grunt. "It ain't being soft. Just not in the business of extorting money from little girls."

"Hey now! You're in the business of whatever I decide the day calls for, you hear? And we both know she wasn't _that_ little. You most of all, knowin' she worked at Marietta's. Huh, looks like I might have to start eatin' out more if I'm gonna want to keep eatin' in" Merle raised his brows, smiling lecherously.

His brother. Always a gentleman. Daryl could only roll his eyes, his annoyance seeming to grow with every rotation of the old truck's tires.

Merle cleared his throat, a sound that could only be described as a 'hack,' his tone turning serious. "Didn't have nobody lookin' out for me when I was her age. And our old man was a hell of a lot worse off than hers. If anything, we're doing that little thing a favor. The world ain't gonna take care of her."

_Whatever helps you sleep at night._ But Daryl kept the thought to himself, relieved that for once the aftermath of a job didn't result in a blow out between the two of them. Something that seemed to be happening more and more often lately. Besides, Daryl knew what helped Merle sleep at night. A six pack and a handful of opiates.

As for him? He didn't get much sleep these days.

That's how he knew where little Blondie worked. Late nights, more often than not, he'd find himself drifting over to the old 24-hour greasy spoon. One of the last remaining fixtures that wouldn't hassle you about smoking indoors. He could order a single cup of coffee for $1.25, unlimited refills. Just sit and think, sometimes read, until his eyes burned and blurred. Until the thought of going back alone to his hole-in-the-wall apartment didn't make him want to blow his brains out.

At the moment though, even his shit little studio seemed preferable to spending another minute of the day with Merle.

As the truck pulled to a stop, Merle's mouth set into a straight line. More grimace than smile. "I'll give you a call later if I hear of any work."

Daryl nodded silently, the only farewell exchanged between the brothers. The payment from the day's 'work' burning a hole in his front pocket. He could almost feel it against his skin, hot and heady. And not in a pleasant way.

He entered his apartment and was greeted by stale air. Perfunctory furniture. A decent model of television. A fridge stocked with nothing but the remnants of a 12 pack of Bud and half of a leftover Subway sandwich.

Home sweet home.

He stood at the kitchen sink and drank two glasses of water. Debated putting on a pot of coffee but decided instead to try and get some sleep. Kicking off his boots, he sprawled across the low sofa and turned the television to a Braves game. It occurred to him that he needed a shower. Didn't smell as bad as Merle, but at the moment it wasn't pleasant.

Putting the television on mute, he draped an arm over his eyes to block out the light streaming through his window and willed his mind to clear. As usual to no avail.

He couldn't remember when he first started working for Merle. Couldn't remember because he'd been doing it as long as he'd been alive. Hell, he was still in diapers when Merle taught him to lift candy from convenience store shelves. As he grew and developed, so did the jobs. Chop shops, amateur betting, bootlegging, dealing in guns and drugs.

It didn't matter that lately he hated it. That lately, guilt from the shit they pulled felt like it was eating him alive. So he'd chain smoke and drink too much coffee, too much whiskey. Anything to try and slow the feeling of deterioration in his chest. But he carried on with it because Merle was his brother. Because Merle didn't want to do it all alone. _We've all got jobs to do. _And his job was to stand by Merle. Stand by his brother. Besides, what else would he do otherwise?

It hadn't used to bother him so much. There was a time when the rush and adrenaline of getting away with a score or a scam had been enough to sate any doubts. But he wasn't a kid anymore. He couldn't try and justify his bad behavior with the blanket of juvenile delinquency. And as he got older, he only got sharper. Only got better at _noticing things._

Like the way Hershel Greene only became a regular on the bourbon and betting circuit a year ago. Around the same time his blonde slip-of-a-thing daughter showed up behind the counter at Marietta's. With woeful eyes always rimmed in circles of fatigue. And as Hershel cried into his cups, his debts to the Dixon's growing – Daryl couldn't help from noticing its effects on the blonde slip-of-a-thing. That her frequency at his late night haunt increased, her shifts seeming to stretch to inhuman lengths.

It had been easy before. Easy to deal with the drunks and the junkies. The fellow riffraff. He let himself believe that their dealings ended there. Realizing that his actions had lasting consequences on their families, their livelihood... that was something much harder for him to reconcile with.

But it was something that Daryl Dixon should have known better than anybody. Wasn't like he and Merle hadn't experienced the same sort of thing first hand. Merle was right. They'd dealt with a hell of a lot worse than Blondie had. Than _Beth _had.

Of course he'd noticed the name embroidered in baby blue thread on her apron.

Just like he noticed the way her lip curled up in a subtle display of disgust at the sight of them on her porch. And the way it seemed to be a conscious effort for her to hold her body still. Whether it was to prevent a slight shaking from fear or from reverting to a stance of fight or flight, he wasn't sure. Wasn't sure he wanted to know. The way he noticed those ridiculous pajamas she wore, cartoonishly out of place at a shake-down.

He wondered if she had recognized him from the restaurant. Doubted that she had. She always had a look in her eye when she poured his coffee. Like she was seeing him but not really seeing him. Like her body was on autopilot while her mind was working through something bigger than not mixing up the decaf with the regular.

$150 buys a lot of $1.25 cups of coffee. Suddenly he felt like an ass for not being a better tipper whenever he went out. As exhaustion and his lingering hangover claimed him, all he could think about were those stupid lemon-print pajamas.

**Authors Note: Want to start off with a massive thank you to everyone who read and reviewed. The amazing support I've received thus far has been overwhelming and such incentive to continue on with this. **

**This was just a short lil' thing of a chapter, really just to set up Daryl's headspace and introduce his situation. Did my best to try and capture the code and morals of Season 3/4 Daryl while still accounting for whatever obvious influence Merle would have. Next chapter is more plot driven, features more interaction between our faves. Shelly2 asked when writing AU Daryl, how do I picture him from the series? I picture him as _optimum hair Daryl _(not too short, not too long)_, _which to me is mid/late season 3 Daryl.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Helplessness Blues**

_If I had an orchard, I'd work till I'm sore_**_  
_**_And you would wait tables and soon run the store_

**Chapter Three**

"Come on baby girl. I know you can do it. Just gotta last for me a little bit longer."

It took three tries of the key in the ignition before the engine purred to life. Beth let out a soft sigh of satisfaction and relief. She knew little of mechanics but secretly always liked to think that her crooning did _something _to keep the old heap of metal running.

Her coworker Connie would sometimes watch through the windows as Beth puttered into Marietta's parking lot, shaking her head. "I'm just always waiting for the call that you're gonna be late or need a lift. But that piece of crap always seems to last just long enough to get you here. Like the damn miracle of Chanukah."

But even if she had the money for a new car, Beth knew she'd never trade it in willingly.

It had been her mama's car. The same car that would drop Beth off at school and choir class as a kid. The same car she borrowed for a date and necked in with Jimmy for the first time she was 16. The same car she was sat in when her mother noticed the love bites and lectured her to high heaven.

This heap of metal and upholstery held more of her mama in it than any tome of family photographs, than any piece of heirloom jewelry. The seats still smelled like the lavender wash her mother favored, the headrest like her meticulously applied hairspray.

The other day Beth's phone had fallen from her lap, under the seat. While rooting around for it, she found a Walgreen's receipt her mother must have dropped. Dated half a month before she had been diagnosed. It was only a little thing, proof that her mother had paid $8.00 for a new shade of lipstick and a weekly soap opera digest. But it was proof that she had been here. Proof that things had been different before. Beth folded up the little slip of paper and tucked it into her wallet. She'd been unable to part with it since.

It sometimes seemed like this car was the only place she'd really let herself experience her depth of emotion. And even then, only in bursts.

Stopped at a traffic light, sometimes her mind would wander to everything that had happened. That scent of lavender would hit her like the proverbial wall of bricks. And she'd start to feel feel her throat tighten up, her nose tingle at the familiar onslaught of tears. But then the light would turn green and she'd tuck it away again. Focus on the road and the laundry list of things she had to worry about.

She'd watch the miles climb on the odometer, traveling without ever really going anywhere. Knowing that any second, the engine could conk out again. That she'd need to call her dad, Otis or Jimmy. The car was her means of independence and freedom, but always with the reminder that she couldn't stray too far.

She knew if Maggie could hear her musings she'd say, 'Oh Bethy, it's just a car. You were always too sentimental."

Pulling into the parking lot of Mariettia's, sure enough Connie stood watching in the window. A weary smile on her face. The bell above the door chimed as she entered the restaurant, and instinctively, Beth glanced around taking a head count of customers. Her unexpected debts the morning before had forced her to take on an extra shift. She could do with a full house.

A seasoned waitress, Connie could almost read her mind. "It's been pretty steady all day, sugar. Dinner rush should be kicking off soon with a vengeance. Homecoming game tonight, don't forget."

Beth grimaced as she tied on her apron. They'd have a packed house but likely little to show for it in the end. Drunk high schoolers (and those long past their school years, yet nostalgic and inebriated) didn't always make for the best tippers. Waitressing made Beth lament her youthful ignorance in the past, all the years she thought that 10% was an appropriate amount to leave. Nowadays she rarely ate out but when she did, she was an overly generous tipper.

Sometimes when Jimmy would pick up the bill, she'd wait till his head was turned to hide a few more dollars under her empty plate. It was something he always boyishly got irritated by. One silver lining to her needing to work so much was the space it allowed her.

Jimmy confused her.

Not that he was particularly complex. Actually, the lack of complexity was probably the problem. On paper Jimmy was perfect. Kind, respectful, moderately amusing. In person he was attractive. His boyish charms were quickly melting away into the strong lines and muscle of manhood. He was comforting, constant. But she couldn't shake the feeling that it was all superficial.

Sometimes she'd sit with him and talk and it was as though she could see her own words bouncing off of his ears, never really penetrating his mind. She got the distinct sense sometimes that he loved her but didn't really know her. Or rather, he loved the idea of her. Of the sweet farmer's daughter. All gilded golden hair and soft singing. The way he boxed her in always bothered her, made her want to act out.

But there wasn't time for acting childish or petty anymore.

Jimmy was always good to her. He'd help out on the farm without being asked. Could be depended on when her car broke down, their lawn mower conked out. So what if he didn't know what her favorite book was? Or that he didn't know her favorite scent was the air before it rains. Or that he silenced her thoughts with kisses so often that she was beginning to think he didn't care what was in her head at all. So what if she felt achingly lonely even when she was in his arms.

She'd feel overwhelming guilt over it from time to time. It wasn't fair to either of them to continue things if she was unsatisfied. But it wasn't a cruel attempt to lead him on, it was a desperate endeavor to appease. Not only Jimmy, but her family. Hershel loved Jimmy. Her mother had loved Jimmy. Loved being safe in the knowledge that Beth had someone to look out for her. With everything that had gone wrong, she didn't want to take that comfort away from her father. Not when he'd lost so much. Consistent, dependable Beth.

As always, Maggie's voice would ring through her ears. "You always loved playing the martyr Bethy. If Daddy asked you to, you'd cut off your own hand and wear it around your neck like a badge of honor."

Before long, the dinner rush picked up and Beth found the bustle of tables routinely comforting. She did enjoy the job in a way, even if her arms and back ached from heavy trays.

She loved seeing people come together. Young couples, peeking at each other shyly over shared plates of french fries. Families with babies, strapped safely into sticky high chairs.

She was always comforted by the presence of her regulars. Good ole country people who knew her parents, knew her as a little one. They'd always insist on sitting at the counter to chat with her. Would leave behind their empty ceramic cups of coffee, and folded up newspapers with a few more dollars for her than necessary.

There was one regular she was hoping that she wouldn't see for quite some time though.

Of course she had recognized him on her porch. Their town was small, Marietta's one of the few non-chain restaurants left in the county. She wouldn't be surprised if, at one point or another, every member of the limited population had rolled through the door.

No, she recognized him. It had made the whole embarrassing ordeal almost more infuriating. Sure, she was a professional server. But coffee is sacred. You should never wrong the person who serves you your coffee.

And she had lost count of how many times she had served his. Always during her graveyard shifts.

Beth usually didn't mind working the overnight. She'd wrap up the dinner rush and settle in for the late night stragglers. Men stumbling out of the bar following last call, hoping to get a bite to eat and some black coffee. Sober up a bit before heading home to their justifiably annoyed wives. Sometimes her father would be with them, another reason she liked the overnight. If not, she could always perk an ear, get the scoop about anything eventful at the bar. A few patrons were always kind enough to reassure her that they'd seen him safely off home.

In any case, working sure beat sitting home awake. Waiting and worrying.

The only other customers were usually the unlucky men and women (people like herself) who found themselves working the late shift. There was almost a sense of intimacy about it. A haze of mutual fatigue would seem to settle over the place. The atmosphere would relax and a sense of camaraderie between her and her customers would develop easily. A shared impression of '_the moon is high in the sky and we're all here together as the world sleeps Isn't life odd?'_ Her customers were often fewer and far between but the tips were generally much better.

Not to mention the fact that her hourly wage was time and a half between the hours 11pm and 5am and she'd usually spend the downtime propped up on the counter eating all of the french toast she wanted, watching old game shows on the diner's beat up television.

But the prospect of tonight's shift was making knots of her intestines.

Beth had never been a confrontational person by nature. Truth be told, she had never had many reasons to confront someone. And now that she did: her father's issues, her feelings for Jimmy, the possibility of having to serve her extorter coffee – she wasn't sure how she would measure up. Or if she'd just keep on being _consistent, dependable Beth._ Keep on letting everything roll off of her like it didn't matter either way.

The hustle of a busy rush made the night go quickly. Before long the families and dinner crowd had cleared out, leaving Beth to do her sidework. Rolling silverware into paper napkins, refilling ketchup bottles, wiping down the inside of the coffee pot. Around 11pm an exhausted Connie, unlit cigarette already dangling between her lips, said her goodbyes.

After a few hours of little business, Beth took the opportunity of solitude to head back into the kitchen and put in a personal request for food. The small kitchen staff adored her. Grizzly old men who had seen too much during wartimes. Who thought the simple chaos of a good ole American fry line and a sweet blonde waitress asking for sandwiches on rye was heaven on Earth. They always offered to warm up the maple syrup for her when she'd order French toast.

She was just settling in for her latenight sugar rush when the old familiar bell above the entrance chimed. Beth looked up from her plate to see the man she had unaffectionately started mentally referring to as 'Extortioner #2' standing in the doorway. Looking clear at her.

Her face flushed with the fear of confrontation mixed with the desire to have one. Extortioner #2 looked away, frozen in place. His expression unreadable aside from the obvious discomfort.

He chanced a glance at her and she took a large bite of her French toast. She hoped the action conveyed, 'I'm so unintimidated by you that I refuse to let you ruin my snack,' but the near imperceptible way that his mouth quirked at the sight lead her to think it didn't have the desired effect.

So instead, she fixed him with the same cold glare she had in her kitchen. And it seemed to disarm him. For a moment, she thought he was going to leave, something she would have considered a strange sort of victory. But then he moved, sat himself down in one of the far booths. And for some reason, that insignificant little action was the straw that broke Beth's back.

She did her best to compose herself, despite her mounting temper. Walked slowly but purposefully over to his table, didn't even bother to bring a menu. As she approached the booth, she could see he had a book out on the table. A beat up, dog-earred paperback. The cover was folded around so that she couldn't see what he was reading. And despite her anger, a part of her was still curious what a man like Extortioner #2 could possibly be interested in.

"You know, there's a sign by the door that says 'Please wait to be seated." Her tone was clipped and prim. Congenial service coated over a layer of ice.

His lips quirked again at the shadow of a smirk and Beth could feel her neck growing hot. The man scoffed lightly, nodded towards the empty diner. "Why? 'Cause you guys are so busy?"

Fury flared in her chest. Before she knew what was happening, it was all spilling out. "People like you, you're always thinking you're entitled to whatever you want. You can just come in here and take a table. You can just go into stranger's houses and take what's theirs..."

Something like guilt flashed across his face, quickly changing into a defensive aggression as he interrupted her. "People like me? You know _shit_ about people like me, girl. You-"

Beth was quick to cut him off. "I know that you know there was nothing I could do about my daddy's...troubles. Nothing I could do about two _thugs_ coming into my house demanding money, besides pay up... _I don't need or want to know anything else about you._" Beth's voice was hoarse, her pitch strained from adrenaline. She couldn't remember a time she had ever spoken to someone like this. She clenched her hands into fists at her side to keep them from shaking.

His face quickly turned into a dark scowl and he rose from the upholstered bench, reaching into his jacket pocket. For a moment, Beth was sure he was pulling out a knife or a gun and her mind raced to what was nearest that she she could use to protect herself. Salt and pepper in his eyes? Bash him over the head with a napkin dispenser? But her worries were made obsolete when he roughly threw a brown envelope onto the table.

He stood as though he had designs on leaving, but Beth blocked the narrow entrance to the booth – staring at the envelope on the table with a furrowed brow. She knew what it had to be, but a part of her brain seemed hesitant to accept the fact. That she had maybe been wrong about Extortioner #2. She turned from the envelope to look at him. Just like in her kitchen, he was facing her without actually looking at her. Even for someone as emotionally perceptive as she was, his expression was difficult to decipher. Contrite, unsettled, maybe even a bit offended.

"Why?" was all she could muster up, almost suspiciously.

He shrugged at the question, mumbling under his breath. "This is the only place where the coffee doesn't suck." Trying to write the gesture off as a joke.

This time it was Beth's turn for the smallest hint of a smile to ghost over her face. Her thoughts from before drifting through her sleep-deprived mind. _You should never wrong the person who serves you your coffee._

"Okay. Just black, right?"

He seemed caught off guard by how casually she worded the question. As though nothing negative had ever transpired between the two of them. He nodded, taking a seat on the bench almost cautiously. Briskly she returned with a steaming cup.

"I'll leave you a menu just in case. My food is getting cold so... just holler if you need anything." She gave him a single nod, as familiar as it was awkward. He regarded her curiously as she made her way back to the counter.

Took a sip of his coffee and turned back to his paperback, the brown envelope of cash still on the table.

**Author's Note: I have to be honest and say that I'm actually quite pleased and excited about this story so far. I sat down today and planned out the first 20 or so chapters and it's really nice having a handle on where the characters are going/their internal motivations. I really hope it's something that has shown through and that Beth and Daryl are our Beth and Daryl – flaws and all. I've done my best to set the story up so that their struggles and fears will kind of mirror each others chapter to chapter. Because like in the show, I really think they're kindred spirits. Next chapter will be Daryl's POV and likely start off right where this one ended, so count on some heightened interaction right away (Beth still needs to learn his name for crying out loud. I DID SAY 'slow burn'). It's something the story is just starting to get to. Once again, thank you all so much for the wonderful support. Your reviews have really been great inspiration to update quickly. Hope you all have a great weekend and I'll try and have Chapter 5 up as soon as possible! xox**


	5. Chapter 5

**Helplessness Blues**

_And I have read the right books**  
**To interpret your looks**  
**You were knocking me down**  
**With the palm of your eye_

**Chapter Four**

It was a conscious effort for Daryl to focus on the page in front of him.

He had come to Marietta's wholly prepared to experience a level of confrontation and discomfort but his interaction with the blonde slip-of-a-thing, _with Beth,_ had thrown him for a loop.

His initial plan had been to simply leave the envelope of cash in the Greene's mailbox. Not even attach a note. But at some point during his long ride up the farm's winding pathway, he lost his nerve. Shaking his head and swearing at himself, he turned his bike around. Went back to his empty apartment, the envelope of cash weighing heavily in his pocket. Weighing heavily on his mind.

He slumped onto the sofa, flicked on the television. Did his best to immerse his attention into a film, some old black and white western. But his eyes and his brain seemed to be two completely different entities at work. And though the moving pictures reflected in his glassed-over vision, nothing of the story seemed to sink in. The gears of his mind firmly lodged stuck in a setting of guilt. Eventually he gave up on the ruse of being entertained and turned the television off.

He could go to the bar? Hershel Greene would surely be there at this hour. Mumble apologies to the man himself, present him with his daughter's money. But that notion was dismissed quickly. Place like that - the money would sooner be in the bartender's register, scribbled down in some other bookie's ledger, long before it went back in Greene's pocket.

He realized with some regret, Hershel taking his daughter's money wasn't very different than him and Merle taking it in the first place. The little thing would still be out $150 because of him.

Besides, the last thing he needed was to run into Merle or one of their 'associates.' He didn't need anyone else claiming that Daryl Dixon had gone soft. Maybe had always been soft.

That left Marietta's. As the moon rose higher in the sky and sleep failed to claim him, he could feel his body itching for that familiar cup of coffee.

It was less about the drink itself, but rather the ritual of it. As much as he hated to admit it, there was something comforting about that damn diner. From the flickering of the fluorescents overhead to the worn upholstery of the booths, forever sticky with maple syrup. To the warm air that always smelled slightly like cigarette smoke and something sharp and sweet. To the sleepy, distant smile the overnight waitresses would give him as they poured his coffee.

The way the blonde slip-of-a-thing, _the way Beth_, would retreat to her counter and hum softly to herself, sometimes laugh quietly at the old television set.

He had noticed her with other customers of course. The way she'd smile warmly, all banter and friendly conversation. Sneak free desserts to her favorites. Always ask the kids for their orders themselves. They'd sit up a little higher in their chairs, proud and pleased that the pretty waitress treated them like grown ups.

She was never like that with him.

She never threw around her words or bright smiles. Never leaned against his table, hand on hip, asking him about his day. But she was always attentive enough. Always silently refilled his cup before he needed to ask. That was service.

He had never been the easiest person to be friendly to. Wasn't good at reciprocating. Wasn't good at smalltalk or sharing. Maybe she was just perceptive. Maybe she could tell he wasn't good with words and kindly left him be.

Maybe she could just tell he was probably no good.

Maybe she was right.

_Hell, of course she was right._

As he kicked the engine of his bike to life, he shook off any hesitation about going back to the diner. He was a grown man, for Christ's sake. He wasn't going to be scared away from his favorite restaurant by a teenage girl. _This is less about her and more about you,_ he reminded himself. This anxiety and preoccupation with the young waitress was just the physical manifestation of his own guilt. Not only over their dealings with Hershel Greene, but for all the shit he and Merle pulled.

He'd drive to the diner as usual, have his cup of coffee, and give her the cash if she was there. Then things would carry on as normal. That would be the end of it.

Or at least the end of it until the next time Merle wrangled him into some shit.

Entering the restaurant, he noticed her first, even with the chime of the bell alerting her to his presence. She was munching away at something. He didn't know how she stayed so slim as she seemed to spend her shifts constantly eating breakfast foods. He almost laughed at the sight of her stuffing her face. Laughing at himself mainly. For almost being scared off by the little thing.

But then she fixed him with one of _those looks._ Those looks that only women can pull off. The kind that make a man's blood run cold.

"_Oh_, _It's a man's world, you say? Keep saying that as I destroy you."_

Dixons as a whole ain't afraid of nothin'. But a look like that? From the right woman? Could send a shiver up even Merle's spine.

All he knew was he needed to get out of her immediate line of vision.

Retreating wasn't an option at this point, so to his usual booth he fled. Had just enough time to steel himself and consider his strategy when she huffed over. All temper and fired up bravado. And Daryl Dixon who would break a man's nose for insulting his choice in beer found himself being chastised by a teenaged waitress for picking his own damn table.

And the strangest thing was, in another world, he would have found it almost endearing of her.

But the reality of the interaction sunk in and before long his guilt and angry defensive nature took over again. And he was throwing down the money, ready to stalk out and never return. He'd invest in one of those fancy coffee contraptions before he'd let a stranger make him question himself, Goddammit.

But just as quickly, the tension and fury seemed to melt from her frame. And she seemed softer than he'd seen before. The look in her eyes firm and unquestioning.

"Just black, right?"

A simple question had never disarmed him so easily. His own anger dissipating seemingly as quick as hers had. And the next thing he knew, he was sat in that booth with his coffee as though nothing had ever happened. It couldn't be that easy. Could it?

Just because he wasn't angry anymore didn't mean he wasn't unsettled though.

The confrontation, the conflict – he could handle that. He was built for that. But this? What was this? He looked up from his book and chanced a glimpse of her over at the counter. The little thing was eating away at her french toast and humming to herself contently. Like she hadn't just confronted a man with a good fifteen years and fifty pounds on her. What kind of mind game was this?

Heat crept up his neck as she felt the pull of his stare and lifted her eyes to his. She raised her brows, similar to how she had done in her kitchen, expecting him to say something. But this time the animosity was absent in her expression. Quickly, he averted his eyes back to the page.

He cringed slightly as she reappeared at his side, coffee pot in hand. She didn't cease her humming as she leaned over to refill his mug. His eyes darted from her hands to the envelope of cash on the table before him. Was she ever going to take it? His fingertips nearly brushed against the manila paper, unconsciously trying to push it towards her.

Picking up on his signals, she sighed rather sadly. "I appreciate it, but I can't take the money back."

"Why the hell not?" He needed her to take the money back. He needed the knot of guilt in his stomach to unfurl. He needed it settled.

She paused for a moment, seeming to put her thoughts in order. "I was angry, still am. And I don't agree with what y'all do. But the gambling and the betting, that's my Daddy's mistake. That's on him. And on me for covering for him. Not you."

He turned from his coffee and looked at her thoughtfully. He hadn't expected a response like that. At her age, he had been all impulse and aggression. He considered her silently for a moment, as she seemed to shrink under his gaze.

Color crept to her cheeks and she spoke again, this time shyly. "Though I'd really appreciate it if you'd all stop letting him bet. Or at least stop letting him bet on losers all the time."

Daryl couldn't help but smirk, finding his own voice more easily than he had all night. "Yeah, your old man doesn't really know how to pick 'em."

She smiled but it was rather a cheerless expression. It reminded him that the situation wasn't very funny to begin with. He cleared his throat gruffly and did his best at apologizing. In his own way. "Go on, just take back the cash. It's yours anyways."

She shook her head adamantly, her face stubborn. "Nope. You were just doing your job. Money was owed to you. You got it back."

He furrowed his brow, his frustration mounting. "Yeah, well it don't feel right taking it. Don't feel right keeping it."

She chuckled humorlessly, a hand going to her hip. "Well then, maybe you should look into finding a different job."

_We all got jobs to do Daryl Dixon. Are you sure this is yours?_

His throat tightened for a fraction of a second. There it was. What he had been thinking and feeling under the surface for months now. And this waitress had been able to discern it and draw it out of him in one simple interaction. He didn't want to do what he'd be doing anymore. He just didn't know how to stop.

"Look." Her voice startled him out of his internal crisis. He kept his head still but moved his eyes to look at her. "If you want to make it up to me, then just move to the counter. I'm pretty much dead on my feet and I might not make it if I have to keep walking over here with coffee."

She spun on her heel and made her way back to the counter before he could even respond.

Awkwardly, he gathered up his things and went to follow her. She turned her head, blonde ponytail swishing around her and gave him a small, almost teasing smile. "Don't forget your big envelope of cash now."

He flushed sheepishly, but at least the knot of guilt in his intestines had unwound some.

He took a seat at one of the counter stools. The motion triggered images of being at the bar. Only here nobody was shouting or fighting. Merle wasn't swaggering around sweating out liquor. And he had to admit, the service was a bit prettier, albeit a lot more unnerving.

"You hungry?" She offered up another menu. "Kitchen is open all night. Obviously... it's a diner." She rolled her eyes at herself self-effacingly. Her mood had shifted, relaxed some. Again, it made him uncomfortable and he did his best to bury his face in his book.

Truth be told, he was starving. But he never ordered food, only coffee. And it felt strange to break his ritual, especially as so many things tonight hadn't gone according to plan. So instead he just shook his head.

"You sure? Not even just toast or something?" Her eyes were wide as she pressed the issue. Reminded him of a mama, making sure her kids weren't hungry when they got home from school. Annoyance rose in his chest as he thought of his own mama.

"Jesus Christ, girl. I said no. Can't a man just read in peace?"

She rose her hands in mock surrender at his lashing out, but there was no real fear or discomfort behind her eyes. "Suit yourself. Just thought maybe you were so damn surly because your blood sugar had crashed. But I guess not." She raised her brows at him challengingly. "I know it's not because you can't afford to eat."

"Just take the damn money if you're gonna keep going on about it!" His temper spiking, he looked up from the page angrily. But there was something teasing in her eyes and he felt his anger dissipate.

Ignoring his outburst, she gestured to the old television set. "Is the sound going to bother you?"

Off guard again, he shook his head.

And just like that, she settled comfortably onto a stool a few away from his and turned back to the program. Some rerun of the evening's late night talk shows. And he caught himself stealing glances at her every so often. As she'd laugh lightly at something or start humming to herself.

They didn't speak again until she walked back behind the counter to refill his coffee. "You should really consider switching to decaf."

"Excuse me?"

"Decaf coffee. Maybe you'd be able to sleep at night if you weren't up drinking it black at 2am." Her eyes were wide and blue, her head tilted.

"You always bother the customers like this?" His voice was gruff but there was no malice in the tone.

"You mean do I always chat with my regulars? Yes. And you're the first person to complain about it, so..." She lifted her chin a fraction of an inch.

"Never used to _chat_. Not with me anyways."

Her cheeks flushed. "Well... to be honest, I always thought you were a bit intimidating. I mean, obviously I was right. You are. But...I don't know..." Her thoughts trailed off as a wave of insecurity washed across her face. "Unless I really am annoying you."

Daryl regarded her curiously and shook his head so subtly it was almost imperceptible. Strange as it was, she wasn't annoying him. In fact, he thought it was kind of nice. Having someone smiling at him, talking to him, checking on him. Even if it was just her job.

She glanced up to find him watching her and held his gaze for a heavy moment. She looked as though she were about to speak again when the bell over the door chimed, pulling her away.

Daryl looked back to his book but listened as she greeted the new customer. One of her regulars, she chatted animatedly and got them settled in.

Suddenly, he felt sheepish for thinking her friendly demeanor was anything other than professionalism. The warmth and welcoming that seemed so new and out of place for him, was expected from everyone else.

He knew it was time to call it a night.

Normally, he'd wait for a receipt and pay at the register. But Beth was still busy with her new customer. So instead, he reached inside the envelope of cash and pulled out a crisp $20, placed it under his empty coffee mug.

Sure, she could refuse her money back. But she couldn't stop him from being a good tipper.

Without a word, he hopped off the stool and left.

The bell above the door chiming behind him.

**Authors Note: Hi lovelies. I just have to say that the positive reception towards this little story thus far has been so surprising and wonderful. This fandom really is the sweetest and most supportive. I hope their interactions this chapter stayed true to character. Daryl is suspicious and surly, all bark but no bite. Beth is thoughtful but stubborn, warm yet teasing. Reviews are more than welcome, as always. Hoping to have the next update by the weekend. We've made it through the first whole month of the hiatus! And again, feel free to ever come by Tumblr and say hello! You can find me at bethgreenepeace. xx**


End file.
